Away From the Grave
by Post Reichenbach
Summary: Holmes and Watson, upon attending the funeral of a close friend, are confronted with their own demons and in doing so realize how different they really are both from the past and each other.


I will never forget that December for it was extraordinarily cold and brought to London enough snow to make navigating the city a difficult and – on some days – a foolhardy mission. However, that is not what makes it singular.

'Only an hour until the mass,' said I, rising from my chair. Holmes had barely acknowledged my presence all morning and he was not about to do so. 'You should get dressed.'

The detective was still in his dressing gown and engaged completely in one of his various chemical pursuits.

'I don't intend to accompany you, Watson.' The remark was thrown out carelessly from behind various beakers and tubes. I was utterly shocked.

Two days before Inspector Lestrade had come to Baker Street with a drawn face. As he stepped indoors his agitation became obvious, his hands shaking and rat-like countenance haggard. He appeared to have aged by a decade since Holmes and I had last laid eyes upon him.

With careful words and not without some difficulty, Lestrade imparted what had happened to Stanley Hopkins. He had been performing his duty and apprehending a suspect when the brute managed to a draw a revolver and fire upon him. The shot passed directly through his heart and the unfortunate man was dead upon the instant. The entire Yard was disrupted, as no doubt every man from officer to inspector was reminded of their own mortality. Lestrade had come to both tell us of the death and to request our presence at Hopkins' funeral service. Hearing Holmes so carelessly brush away this obligation struck me with a certain disgust. After all, Hopkins was Holmes' pupil of sorts, not to mention part of several of his most interesting cases. My friend had shown barely a scrap of emotion and not a shred of remorse over the young man's fate other than to blandly dub it a 'shame'.

At my silence Holmes finally glanced up from his Bunsen burner,

'My apologies Watson, but I do not care for funerals. There is nothing mystical about dying and services like Hopkins' are simply a waste of time.'

'Well, I don't think it a waste. Hopkins deserves to be honoured, at the very least.'

'I wouldn't call standing by a grave in this weather "honouring".'

'What would you refer to it as?' I was quite exasperated at this point, barely wishing to continue this conversation.

'Inconvenient and uncomfortable.'

That he could be so flippant shocked and disgusted me in spite of my years in Holmes' close acquaintance. As callous and cold as he could be I did not expect this kind of utter disregard – especially since he seemed to like Hopkins. I could not think of a suitable reply, such was the strength of my anger. I must have stood for several seconds, mouth set in a scowl, and brow furrowed.

Holmes at length rose from the table and, after remaining motionless for a very long moment, moved toward his bedroom.

'If you feel so strongly about the matter then by all means I will defer to you, Watson.

He threw the remark over his shoulder, leaving me bewildered but grateful all the same.

--

He stared at the coffin as it sat in its final resting place. He might as well have been looking into the bottom of the falls.

Cursing himself for thinking along those damn familiar veins, he turned sharply away. The cemetery, though small, was crowded with mourners, many of them with handkerchiefs to their eyes as a testament to their grief.

He struggled to arrive at an explanation for this kind of behaviour. He was standing at Hopkins' memorial but the dead man was the furthest thing from his mind. The snow on the ground looked too much like mist and the showering dirt of distant gravediggers sounded far too much like water. It was this hypocrisy and selfishness which made him balk at attending in the first place, and he was not quite sure why he relented. True, Watson seemed more than angry at the prospect of his absence, but that could not be the only reason for his change of mind.

He shrugged to himself. What else but tact could draw him here? That age old of enemies, the bringer of reputation, yet the harvester of that deepest layer of self respect.

He hated the idea of seeing someone off to their death or whatever flowery, unnecessary language the clergy decided to use. They were really staring in the face of the ultimate unknown, reminding themselves that all too soon they'd have to enter it. He would not wish that fate on anyone, not even Moriarty. The circularity of his thoughts was beginning to disturb him.

He stole a glance at Watson by his side. The doctor seemed thoughtful yet sad, but his face was altogether different from the other distant mourners. He seemed warm, both literally and metaphorically, and had an air of contentment. How anyone could possibly be content outside on a day in deep December, staring into a grave, and standing next to Lestrade was beyond even Sherlock Holmes' powers of deduction.

--

He was not thinking of Hopkins either. Watson, too, had largely come out of respect and obligation, despite what his companion may have thought.

Watson saw the coffin and grave not as falls but for what they were back in the autumn of 1891. After months of hope and jumping at every knock at his door, the doctor had had to accept one of the hardest truths of his life. Sherlock Holmes was dead.

Though everything in him abhorred the thought, not for a second supposing it to be in any way valid, Watson knew logically that it must be so. Slowly that voice of reason came to silence the rest, and that's when he had known he had to plan the service.

Attendance was meagre, but he had expected that it would be. Mycroft, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Wiggins, and a few scattered, long forgotten clients made up the company of mourners. Watson had only half-heartedly listened to the parson, most of his attention being channelled into blaming himself for what happened. Running off toward the Englischer Hof he hadn't even dreamed of a hoax. That he should be such a fool throbbed in his chest, the base of his guilt. In that moment when they were all bidding the detective farewell, he had experienced the most powerful sense of loss and utter confusion. He didn't know what he was going to do. It was such a simple, ordinary thought, but now it had twisted itself to seemingly envelop the rest of his life. Taking his arm, Mary had attempted to hurry him along, out of the rain that had just started to fall. She couldn't have been more distant.

Movement beside him brought back the present as Holmes folded his arms – an attempt to keep warm, no doubt. That Holmes could be standing there at all was something that still gave Watson a burst of joy and relief, even though it had been over a year since his return. The feeling was intensified due to the circumstances - so much so that he could barely repress a smile. Holmes glanced at him in time to catch it, but seemed far too lost in his own thoughts, and soon his eyes fixed once more on the box that contained the late Hopkins.

The service was now coming to a close, and the crowd dispersing. Giving a solemn nod to both of them, Lestrade made his exit as well.

Watson put a hand on his friend's shoulder grateful once again that he was not merely a spirit.

'Thank you for coming, Holmes.'

'It was no trouble, Watson, but I'm liable to catch cold if I stay out any longer in this weather. That would be quite a bit of trouble.' He added the last bitterly and nearly inaudibly, clearly cold and ready for the comforts of the indoors. Then he turned away finally from the last of Stanley Hopkins. After watching Holmes walk steadily away from the grave for a moment Watson finally let the smile surface and hurried to join him.


End file.
